Pale Skin Blushing
by Rope
Summary: Draco is a dandy, wears furs and reads Baudelaire while breathing fumes; he loves to talk and he talks...a little bit to much. Small Print: cutting. Incest. Please don't read if it's offending to you.
1. Default Chapter

Pale Skin Blushing  
  
Chapter I  
  
Well, do you think I care for her?  
  
Then you are so very wrong. I admit that girl has a certain 'something', that little smartass, but I get unpleasant shivers when I look at those muggle clothes peeking from under her robes. Bless those robes; for once they are useful, now that muggles and mudbloods are allowed in. I really have a hard time looking away, as she sits right across me in so many of our classes. Her hair doesn't make it up for me. And speaking of which, she should wear make up. What's wrong with those people here? Wizards have a long history of ...ah, I won't start again, but really, wizards started the whole make up thing centuries ago, why is everyone in denial?  
  
Because of those tasteless, homophobic mudbloods.  
  
But anyway, don't think I say this with disgust. MUDBLOODS. I like them, I like the word itself. Why did we, pure-fuckin-bloods invent the word and the phenomenon of 'mudbloods'?Because it's nice to have an affair with someone socially unacceptable. All this undercover loving and the secrets and such. Everybody craves for that risky feeling, and that's why Hermione...That's why I try not to think about her jeans when I see her.  
  
She apparently has the same thing going on as every, I repeat, every girl. She wants to turn a gay boy straight. Oh my, would it prove how feminine and powerful she is! One would think she is smarter than that, but you know... the hormones, as they say. Sex is something you should never underestimate. And lucky me, I know it, I am aware!  
  
So, I'm having a hard time here, in this bloody school. So what?  
  
I like make up, so does my dad, my beloved daddy-o, and everybody's trembling at the thought of him getting out of Azkaban again. With right: you should see him in fury, long hair waving around; no neat ribbon can hold it in place, pale skin blushing under the rouge, he is like a storm, his voice is thunder. The effect is stunning, also for the one recieving his rage... I should call that person the VICTIM. Well, he has many victims. My daddy.  
  
Enough of him, he's currently in cold dungeons losing his mind. I hope he enjoys. We can talk about him later, if you insist. Anyway, I don't suffer here in Hogwarts. I don't mind the caricatures of me, I don't mind the gossip- in fact, I love the gossip. He did this, he did that, oh that's always exciting- and sometimes gives me ideas. Like that Colin thing. He was supposed to cut himself because I didn't go out with him. How silly is that? The idea of someone mutilating himself because of a failed date... he has much deeper problems. You know, childhood, yada yada, abused by his own father, lalala, nothing unusual, just the typical traumas you collect when growing up... Back then, some months ago, I wasn't aware of his problems (oh dear, everyone seems to have problems nowadays, it's so en vogue to have 'problems') and I wasn't really aware of him either. Little blond cute boy though, should've noticed him earlier, but now I've learned my lesson- never underestimate people. Would be something along the lines of 'don't judge a book by its cover' but, come on, that's the best part of life! To do exactly that, to judge, infer and form opinions about people as fast and superficially as you can. I'm just saying, underestimating is a bad thing. Bad, as in: red nail varnish before 6 o'clock in the afternoon. So this gossip that I've had treated him badly, that I stomped his little ego into ashes- it just made me literally turn around on my heels and look at that boy. What can I say! He's simply a delicious creature. Skin like velvet, bruised so easily I thought he was seriously sick! But he isn't, he's in good shape, but oh! so delicate. That's why I call him 'my little princess'. There was a fairy tale about a princess sleeping on a little seed and having bruises all over from that- well, that's my Colin.  
  
What jolly good times we had, we still have... I should say that I have great times with him... I couldn't count how many nights he cried in my arms, how many times I pretended to hide all the sharp objects from him (but I couldn't resist playing to be a little dumber than I am, leaving all the knifes and razorblades always in the same spot, the shelf with the arithmacy books and my little pill-box- it's made in china by the way, great piece of history I can tell you; but, oops, here we would start talking about my dad again and we don't want that, don't we?). And then I made him believe I'm asleep, that I'm the type who falls asleep after sex, and he sneaked out to the bathroom, still choking on my cum (that boy will never learn to value this taste) and cut cut, cut, cut! Little scars on his arms blooming with blood like red flowers- I'm getting poetic again when I think of this. He always stands there in front of the sink and the mirror, shoulders hanging down, bare back turned to me... And I just worship every moment of this tragic, in a way, picture. If I were only a better painter... I try, I do, I really try... but sometimes it's just better to leave saint things like this alone. Art is life, so they say. I couldn't agree more with my lovely poets, my comely dandies. Artistic influences of mine, you want to know? Think. Not difficult to guess.  
  
But back to Colin's scratched back; I have pretty long fingernails, that seems to do it. I don't even aim in making his back a bloodmess, like I told you, his skin is so delicate. It just happens, little scratch here and there... He cuts his wrists too, although he promised me, drowning in tears, night by night that he wouldn't go for the wrists. He cried all those sweet never again's and his little nose got stuffed, I always had a silk handkerchief for him, ready to swipe away the mess from his face, the saliva uncontrollably running down his chin... He always sobs so hard, it's like the earth is shaking for him; every muscle in his body is tense, rock hard and yet quivering. The harder I press him to myself, embracing this little bundle of hysteria, the more his emotions dare to crawl out on the surface. And then I let him get high on hope, caressing those little hands, wiping carefully the blood from them, kissing cautiously the cuts. It gives me shivers, yes, those sensations when I see the wounds getting deeper as he dares life more and more- those senstions running down my spine are amazing; but I must forbid myself that pleasure of pushing him towards the... it would be mean, wouldn't it? Let him die when it seems there is a possibility for me to keep him alive, at least for a while, and somehow let him taste the life that he hates so much. Before his departure, inevitable, I'm afraid, to St.Mungo's.  
  
Ah, I'm just being melodramatic now- you see, I really think he might make it to just get over that terrible phase of growing up and facing the horrors of revoked memories. It's just I can't stop dramatizing and in my dreams he dies in my arms, we both covered in blood on the cold bathroom floor, water dripping in the sink measuring the seconds that pass by as his sobs get calmer and fear vanishes from his eyes. He never knows that I spy on him, as I can be very quiet- another nice invention of me. People are used to me walking around in high heel shoes that make me audible from the most distant corridors...and besides the heels, I like to be seen, I like to say things louder than anyone else. That makes me a pretty obnoxious person in other's eyes, but who would suspect me of doing the little things I like to do?  
  
Because, see...It might just me the only thing I am ashamed of, if just a little. It's my fetish to spy on people; I'm a voyeur, that is. It really makes me hard and I get off on that. Maybe it's all accident, and maybe it is one of nature's sick little jokes to keep things like that in the family; but I will explain, if I wish to, later, as it would bring us back to my lovely father.  
  
Regarding Colin, again I got distracted, all those pretty things are so absorbing...I guess if he did really want to commit suicide at some point, he would go back to me, with flesh wide open, running to my bed. He surely wouldn't expect me at the door, watching every of his 'lonely' moments. Would he be disappointed that I didn't save him? Would he be angry? He sure can get angry, and that is, again, a picture worth painting, a story worth telling. His anger is so different from what I have known, it's always so tamed in the beginning, but growing so strong; you can see the fury crawling under his skin ; he's accusing me of not being honest with him, then he breaks this and that, whatever comes along,. Then he proceeds to use his fists- and I assure you it's delightful to see a bruise on myself a day after, or walk around with a black eye...partly because it's a pleasant reminder, but also because it's good for the image. I always wear my nicest shoes then, the ones with spiked noses and heels covered in leather.  
  
And then, his anger fights with his fear; you can see it all in the face, as he's becoming aware that it might lead to consequences...like me leaving him... While this terrible inner wars and fits of fury happen, I just wait, yawn, yawn, yawn, till he allows himself to be weak enough to let me grab his arms and hold them by the wrists on his back. I can kiss him calm then, and he salt always feels funny on my lips; I can talk him softly into the state where we both can leave without the need to worry about his panic attacks striking when I'm not around to hold him and whisper sweet hopes into his ear. I even let him fuck me, although it was something he was too shy to do at first. Such a passive little kid, one could think, but no- believe me, no. You just have to encourage him, lick his fingers wet and tell him what to do. I would really miss him if he died, so...I trust myself maybe too much? Believing that I can be the manipulator of his mind, controlling his fears and the body? The lessons I learned were about not overrating your own powers. See, don't underrate others and don't overrate yourself, uncle good advice says. Works for me, so far, but I've only lived 16 years. And frankly, I'm not sure if I will be much longer.Self-mutilation is infecting, not in ways you might find obvious, too obvious; I don't do that stupid cutting-shit Colin does. But I noticed I'm less worried about my health, about how much I can take. I am also a hypochondriac, obviously, so don't mind me. This is a goodnight tale for some other evening. Let's make this story a little more varied, as that angel-face Colin seems to have taken it over- as if I would love him dearly, oh great- please notice the sarcasm in my voice. Hermione, for example, is a good topic. Let's just go back to her. Remember how I told you that she probably wants to turn the gay me straight? I guess she really does want it, but I'm not gay. Not that gay, anyway, to not appreciate a girl that's pretty and smart.  
  
See? I care about the smarts, too.  
  
Whether they're there, or not. You know, intelligence and beauty do not count if they're not interesting. Like that Cho girl. Oh my sweet love, what did Harry see in her? Maybe at first she seems untouchable, one of those superior funny girls that you think you'll be never able to read, so you, of course, want to read and have them. Guess how untouchable she is? I don't want to say I fucked her, I didn't, I could've! Date rape isn't anything uncommon these days. What was she expecting going out with a death eaters son? She used to hate me, so I heard; even despise. But I , the little git, made her believe we have this romantic story happening....young love, tragic like Romeo's and Juliet's; I a Slytherin with a golden heart (oh, you may laugh, but we have some of those) and she, a brave Ravenclaw girl accepting this love, proving that feelings have no boundaries. Like I said, smart isn't enough- you have to have something more. Instinct, maybe. Or better, an interesting lack of intelligence. Ron, if you want names you can recognize. Harry... yeah, a little. He's interesting though, whatever people say.  
  
Yes, strong will! You guessed it, disco! You can't just let your feelings grow in every direction they want. Cut, cut, trim, trim. I gave Cho a couple of looks, and I promise you, my eyeliner skills, inherited from my father dearest, are not disappointing- she fell for it, for the look. She fell so hard she was always around me. Then she could stand me looking at her for longer. Then I talked to her. And look, how sensitive I turned out to be! Everybody thinks I'm just a spoiled brat; and here I am, nice and I can talk like a sensible person. I have feelings, too and oh my, a sense of humor. She really believed in it, how incredible is that? The trust she showered me with; amazing. This trust morphed into infatuation, in the spirit of forbidden relationships and secret affairs- we kids like to call it 'affair', it sounds dangerously mature-and there SHE was on a date with ME. Small talked her down to her underwear, but there was some resistance. Oh, like I already insinuated, I could've gone 'bad', but I didn't. Now she's even more heartbroken than if I had violently' taken her' up the ass. Ignoring someone, my dear children, is one of the mightiest powers.  
  
Hermione is going the same foolish way, I'm afraid, but nonetheless, I like watching her testing herself as a woman. How deeply fascinating, besides those tight jeans and PINK sweaters she wears after class. This mellow pink just drives me insane; so many kids having contact with the muggle world seem to have a weakness for those dirty pastels. You understand, there are fascinating things about the muggle culture- and things we have in common with them. But good taste forbid! Those fabrics and cheap colors, we shouldn't allow that particular aspect of their influence. Looking at the portraits at the Manor, you see all the overwhelming glory, all the glamour -see, muggles invented that word- and the strikingly good presence you can achieve...with just a little of good taste. That is what disappears when the schools are not for pure-bloods only . There are no fathers and mothers to teach about beauty. Ah, silly me. Some students do not even have daddies. Especially now.  
  
My father is just as far away as you can imagine; but the mark he left on me- the hate I feel deeply for him, dearest, leave me wanting to continue the noble tradition of great appearance.  
  
Albus Dumbledore and the rest of the teachers always stand by for me, as I'm the poor messed up kid with parents that are abusive and so on.... Somebody needs to get me straight- not that they mind me preferring my own sex, rather in terms of growing up and leaving the dark past behind. They give me some credit, more then I deserve, I suppose. But so they are towards Harry. And to be honest, it feels good to be patronized by Severus Snape... but do I disclose too much here? Don't expect me to tell you all the truth. I like being exposed, in painful anticipation whether it's going to hurt more or not, but you won't be the audience for that.  
  
But hold on, I will tell you more. About people who are far more fascinating than I am. Although- I'm learning. About things that you are afraid to watch but you just can't stop peeking from behind the corner. Powder your noses, check your hair and then we can continue. 


	2. Chapter II

Chapter II  
  
"It's not rape, how silly of you! We are married" he was actually surprised, really surprised- and not scared of me. Not for one second, I'm afraid... how amused he looked, facing me, as I was standing there with a knife. "Just put it down" he said with a sneer. That's just how he is, he ignores my anger, he always did, and I can't complain really. Just watching him makes me learn more about people than anything else. Nobody ever questions what he does. Well, nobody did until recently. Well, you see, my dad is a very special person. One would think I got after him, but no. After you're around us Malfoy's for a while you see that I'm actually just like my mother, which really gets on my nerves sometimes. She doesn't have the character I want to have, I am afraid I will get just like her, a little too much like her . Daddy dearest says character is something you can work on, but that's just an old joke of him...because, of course, he believes that you have to be born beautiful, you have to be born to higher tasks , you have to have strong will in your blood. He says mother doesn't have it. He's not much of a philosopher, but admitted, he was born special. And he knows which eyeshadow will emphasize this quality of his.  
  
He was the only one to reject me, really, so if you ask yourself why I might sound a little to bitter for my age, well, that's the bloody reason. Just like Colin. But Colin this, Colin that, enough of him! Do I sound bitter by the way? I hope so, otherwise all what had happened would prove to be worthless; not even scarring my mind. My father never learned, he never worked on himself, he just profits from the pain he suffered, and my darlings, that is the best way to go trough life- if you are able to deal with that. So, whatever happens, humiliation, pain, loneliness- just put more perfume on. I'm wondering about Harry. Sometimes. He seems to be the only one who thinks the same way I do. I know he had some rough time in the past, and even now; but at least he didn't see his mother raped on a regular basis. But I can't complain either, I know when I was still pretty much unaware of what's going on with the Dark Lord he actually defeated him. Get that, that's really something. There are so many rumors about what happened to Harry in the past years, and nobody seems to really know what's going on. Except Harry, of course.  
  
To be honest, I hate that he gets so much attention. He doesn't even care for what he's wearing, stupid muggle upbringing I guess. His hair is interesting in a way, I like that messy look. But that's about everything I appreciate about that Potter boy. People seem to be very attracted to him, even if they don't like him- which is very often the case, how weird, isn't it? The hero boy; but this way or another he always gets to be in the spotlight.  
  
He met the Dark Lord before I got to meet him. That is something I could be jealous of; not that I am. That's just a thought tho.  
  
I don't hate him, absolutely not. I hate my father. That is hate; my feelings towards Harry are actually pretty friendly. What can I do about the fact that his best buddies seem to despise me more than anything? He probably does too, but he's trained in the fine art of forgiving and so on, and so on. He's got such a huge golden heart. You should see how nasty this sweet boy can get, oh my. You know, once... once he really beat me almost unconscious. I played along and pretended to lose it before he actually he manage to hurt me. I'm not fooling you, he can get pretty wasted and then pretty violent. He doesn't do it too often I think; but still, happens.  
  
I have to say it was fun reporting him to Dumbledore. I have no idea how long did he spend in detentions for it, but certainly they came up with a nice excuse to avoid expelling him. Those are not the times where anyone would let Harry leave Hogwarts. The War makes it so much easier to behave badly.  
  
But that was the last time I was teasing that boy. Of course, it might seem as if he had just scared me enough to be nice to him now. I am not nice though, because Harry has a delicate spot now. Sirius. I'm not saying I'm playing tastelessly with his emotions.  
  
Well, maybe I am!  
  
Anyway that train of thought doesn't lead anywhere. I just can't get that boy out of my head. And as much as it hurts I have to admit that his charm works on me too. But here's where the strong will comes in handy- I am able to cut down those silly feelings everyone seems to develop towards him. I can't even count how many times he drove me crazy by being in my dreams. Thankfully, I know now how to deal with emotions those dreams evoke.  
  
So, you see, there is some sort of silly infatuation, whether I want it or not. I can't say I'm going for it, but Hermione is just the perfect...she's just perfect to get us all together.  
  
Because the way I see it now, we should be together. Not as a couple, silly you. Not me and Harry.  
  
You have to understand that I don't care for many people. I would even say I don't care for people at all; I care for the beauty that we all can create together. I told you about Colin. This boy is pure poetry. I didn't tell you about Tom though. Tom I do care about. But there's something I don't want him to achieve- Harry's death. And somehow I don't even want him to win the war. It seems I want the war to last forever.  
  
But I'm not that naïve. I know it will take many of the beauties I cherish, and although I know that I've seen so much by now I haven't seen anything yet. Who taught me that? The Dark Lord himself.  
  
Tom was the one to save me from being a total fool. The nights after I confessed.... confided in my father- that was the most humiliating time in my family's life. I never felt so betrayed, and if you knew what happened, you would understand why I hate my dearest father.  
  
He's not a good daddy. You see, in relationships he's like a femme fatale. Oh, muggles have delirious movies about those kind of woman... 'The Blue Angel' ? 'Morocco'? 'Mata Hari'? That is style and grace; and I felt so special when daddy's friends showed me those movies- the silly thing in muggles is, they do not believe in this kind of life besides the screen. I said that 'femme fatale' thing about my father because I think it's the best way to describe the way he is with others. He really never knows what he wants- so he takes it all and leaves behind whatever turns out to be less satisfying. He never had to learn to choose, he was never forced to it. Yes, his natural born charm allows him to play with everyone, and to tease...  
  
Ah, I shaped my eyebrows just like his favorite movie star, Greta Garbo. I was wearing red and green, just the colors he thinks I look best in. I was wearing the nicest petticoats under my robes; that's when I really started dressing myself and when I got my own taste. It was all just to impress him, in the beginning that is.  
  
I developed the finest feeling for choosing fabrics; I knew which furs to wear to which occasions. My hair, oh dear, what haven't I done with my hair just to satisfy him- so he could show me off, like a doll, at his parties. I noticed pretty quickly that he is trying to push my limits. At first, it was a pleasure for him to get complimented on me; but he couldn't have noticed faster how it all started to look like some sort of prostitution. We would arrive to an event, a family like from a picture- my mother modest, but stunningly silent, goddess-like; maybe a little too shy- which is nothing bad really, especially that people thing she's just very aloof. Him, the most beautiful creature you could imagine. A tall and sleek man, perfect hair, not a wrinkle on his delicate coat, giving those intense charming looks...one would think it's his soul, his mind being so powerful and charmingly looking trough his eyes. But it's just eyeliner, really; I know he can sit dumbly and numbly thinking about nothing and look like he's fascinated by the pure fact of his own existence.  
  
And me, the doll I was, with hair neatly curled, the fur collars perfectly matching the tone of my skin and gloves with discreet rings that would underline the delicate shape of my hands... my hands are just like my mothers- a fact that made me proud, back then. Then, he would show me off more and more blatantly, he was almost making me turn around in front of a crowd to present me... and the things he used to say. Like I was his trained puppy! The people were delighted, and so was he; the more admiration he got the more avowedly he was playing with me. I never felt secure back then, all those hands touching me, allegedly 'in passing by', those seemingly innocent kisses! And those terrible, terrible smiles. This is not a lot you want to be a doll for, the Death Eaters. I can assure you. I can't imagine not going to those parties, not meeting those beautiful and influential people, crème de la crème of our wizard's world - but I want to be someone they respect.  
  
That was the time I was washing myself all the time. My skin was shedding in some places. I was so trivially obsessed with being clean, I didn't even notice there was this obvious connection between my daddy somewhat selling me to others and this psychotic behavior.  
  
He was just trying me; I saw that in his looks- this mocking smile he gave me whenever I put more effort in looking good. But he seemed to be so satisfied with me, too, and how he encouraged me! He introduced me to the best tailors, the most exclusive jewelers, those who create the most beautiful masterpieces by combining magic with actual knowledge of the matter and the work of hands. Sometimes he was stroking my hand and kissing it, telling me how wonderful I smell and how delicate my skin is. Just like your mothers, he added sometimes with a fleeting smile that made my heart rise in hope.  
  
How much pleasure must it have been for him, to torture me in the ways he did. He showed me so much love and concern sometimes that when he grew cold the very moment after- I couldn't even think clearly. I wanted hold him forever by my side, having him entertain me and anybody else, telling me stories, telling me compliments! And he was always leaving me with that lack of satisfaction, the hunger for more. So many times he turned to me during a conversation, giving me a mysterious smile, looking at me with visible pleasure- but then he turned his back to me just as quickly.  
  
One night he danced with me, and his eyes were staring at me so intense, and his hands were holding me so tight I was gasping for breath- that is what I wanted, to dance with him forever. We were, as other guests joked, the most graceful couple of the event. It didn't matter to him, I think. If it did, he disguised it really well.  
  
How blind one can be! I will always wonder about that phenomenon of loving someone so deeply that you're able to lose yourself in this love.  
  
He still alleges he loves mother. And that was the love I was so jealous for? So many times I heard her screaming, I never really questioned it, as it was always there in our house. Until that moment, when I couldn't bear it anymore, them being together, without me. I ran into their room where I saw her tortured , I ran in with a knife, my face red in traces of tears... the valet, not the house elf I mean, couldn't keep me away from entering that room with no force. I must have had a pretty stupid look at my face, as my mother winced at the vision of me standing there; and he, my father, just lifted his eyebrow and smiled. "What are you doing, Draco?" He asked softly, and once more, I was bedazzled by how quickly his voice and expression can change- from a monster, a furious animal he turned within seconds into my loving father. The words about rape escaped my mouth faster than I could think; I wouldn't say that otherwise. That's when he said calmly : "You silly boy. We're married. It's not rape"  
  
So, that night I realized I couldn't take it any longer. Seeing him the way he was with my mother made it pretty clear where I want to be with him. The image of his body, of his hair falling down onto the shoulders covered in sweat and scratches- I couldn't push it away from my thoughts for weeks. I got so thin then! I had to stay in bed for days, being treated with the silliest kinds of medication. And then, after such a long time, he came to see me saying with this worried voice that he knows I am troubled with something.  
  
He couldn't wait it either. He wanted to hear it as much as I needed to say it. So I did; I told him everything. I broke down I tears, and he encouraged me to put all the love and desire I had for him into words. And guess what he did after that?  
  
He laughed at me. He said that I can't be serious about falling in love with my own father. Again, the sneer on his face and the soft, oh-so- rational voice gave me shivers as he told me he won't tolerate such ridiculous, sick behavior and if I don't stop immediately he will have to send me to see a specialist about that. And you have no idea what kind of 'specialists' he knows. 


End file.
